


Magdalena

by wifebeast__s



Series: Mer de Noms [2]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Cunnilingus, Deacon is just thirsty, F/M, One Shot, Shameless Smut, SoSu Dani, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, hope you like lemons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 13:32:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19086043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wifebeast__s/pseuds/wifebeast__s
Summary: Part of the Mer de Noms series (only after about 2...3 years? Of nothing for this particular fandom). One-shot featuring Deacon and his partner, Dani, aka Wanderer. He’s a fan of her most recent outfit, and he shows his appreciation in a very specific way. A sexual one. If that wasn’t clear.





	Magdalena

**Author's Note:**

> This is not necessarily related to the other Dani stories. It’s just a one shot. Because I started playing the game again to relax, and I was like “Dani should just bang ALL OF THEM.” Of most of them. Anyway. Here we are.

The great thing about sunglasses was that they hid any number of sins, including but not limited to having one's eyes glued to your partner's ass. To be fair, it wasn't his fault that Dani had stripped those road leathers from the dumbass who tried to ambush her. She had scrubbed them, singing the outfit's praises – _leather is more resistant to energy damage, Deacon._

In another situation, he would be singing its praises, too, but for different reasons. One in particular. Specifically, that strip of skin left between the leather pants (ok, two reasons because her ass...holy shit, her ass) and the vest. Soft, tanned skin over toned abs and that sinful dip in her back. The hint of a tattoo peeking out from the bottom of the shirt. He would be panting, with his tongue hanging out to the side, if he had less self-control. He was halfway there already.

She climbed up the stairs of the old fire escape slowly, taking point as usual, her bladed tire iron in one hand. He could see up her shirt from here, even, make out some more of the details. But not enough.

She turned, standing more fully, “We're clear. That was the last of them.”

Deacon stood, “Way to go, Wanderer.”

She curtsied before practically stomping up the rest of the way. How she could go from silently sneaking around a corner and taking out an enemy with a well-placed hit to the head, to making the old stairs shake under her heavy steps he would never understand.

He still followed her.

By the time he got up to where she had stopped, she had picked the lock on the door and stood leaning against it, arms crossed over her chest, “Come on in.”

He took one last sweep behind them before stepping in. She followed behind him, closing and locking the door.

The place was surprisingly intact. The bottom floor had been blocked off, but so had the door to the hallway, making the entrance they came through the only one. Still, Deacon hadn't made it this far by being complacent, so he peeked through the curtains, pulling them back tight.

“We still have an hour or so of daylight, but listen, no lamps or anything tonight.”

She nodded. Dani had worked with Deacon enough times to know how he operated, and she was fine with that. She tossed her tire iron onto a table and swept her gaze around the room, making a slow circle. There was enough room for their two bags – a couch, an old tv, and a bookshelf. She gave Deacon a look, “10 caps there's a safe back here.”

Deacon took stock of the furniture, the area, “No way.”

She shrugged and strode confidently to the bookshelf, reaching up to blindly grope for something on one of the top shelves. More of her back was exposed, and Deacon choked.

She turned, “You ok?”

“Thought you found something,” he offered flippantly, turning to dig through their packs. They did need to eat something, so it wasn't entirely an act. _Smooth, man._

“Not yet,” she murmured, before stretching again, “Gotcha.”

He turned again at her excited murmur, just in time to see her pushing the bookshelf out of the way to expose a small metal door in the wall. He groaned, “No way.”

“You can pay me whenever.”

He watched her bend over - _christ_ \- and work at the lock. A few seconds, then a click, and “Yeah, baby, that's it.”

A box of ammo, a bundled wad of pre-war money, a flip lighter, and a 10mm pistol landed on the couch, “The spoils of war.”

He slid down to the floor, tugging the wig off and tossing it to the side before leaning his head back against the couch. He dug through his pants, counting out ten caps and tossing them, one at a time, at his partner. She tried to block them with her hands, laughing as she did so, “Ass.”

He chuckled, lit a cigarette, and settled in.

“So, you want,” she spied the food he had pulled out, “some mutt jerky or instamash?”

“Such great options.”

“We'll split them,” she offered, wiping off two plates left on the table. He watched her go through the motions, prepare their food, and he wondered idly what it had been like for her before the war. Was this what life was like for her? Maybe with fewer blown out buildings and things trying to kill her. Directly, anyway. She had never offered, and so he had never asked.

She handed him his plate, then returned to the safe, “There was one other thing.”

She turned with the bottle held in front of her chest. Bourbon. _Nice_ bourbon.

“Oh, Wanderer, I pledge myself to you,” he praised from his spot on the floor.

Dani just grinned, “I know.”

She took her own plate and stood by the window, leaning down to peer through the curtains. They ate in silence. They did a lot of things in silence, Deacon thought. And while he barely knew anything about Wanderer, she in turn knew very little about him and never asked. Bless her for not asking questions.

A couple hours and a bottle later, she was stretched across the couch, fingers drumming a tune he didn't know against the side, and he lay parallel to her on the floor.

“When in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for a people,” he was reciting, surprisingly clear, despite his drunkenness.

“ _One_ people,” she corrected around a giggle.

“That's what I said,” he protested, flinging his hand up to swat at her. To his horror, he felt not supple leather beneath his knuckles, but soft, smooth skin. Warm skin. Skin that shivered under his touch.

There was a pause; did he hear her swallow?

“That's not what you said,” she responded softly, and if he didn't know better, it sounded husky.

They had had too much to drink. That much was clear. That was why his hand hadn't moved. That was why his finger still traced that sinful strip of skin, following the path of the waist of those leather pants. That was why her breathing became sharp and erratic. Why her fingers were on his wrist – not to push him away, as he thought, and as she probably should, but to keep his hand in place.

“No, Wanderer,” he corrected, “I definitely said it right.”

“You said ‘a’.”

His fingers should be cut off because, without his permission, they were sliding over her hip bone, across her stomach, and back. Fuck, he wanted to replace them with his tongue.

“Wanderer-”

“Call me Dani, Deacon, shit.”

Well, that sounded like permission. He sat up, pulling his hand free. If she was disappointed, she didn't get a chance to protest before he replaced it with his other hand, the better to touch the other side.

He could feel her breathing underneath his fingers, the steady and rough inhalations and exhalations. He rolled onto his knees, pushing his fingertips under the form-fitting vest, before leaning down and doing what he had been dreaming about since she had put on the outfit. He tasted her hip, tongue first, then grazing her skin with his teeth. She choked beneath him, panting in earnest now.

_Oh, fuck_ , she was responsive.

Her fingernails scraped over the back of his head, down his neck. His body was wracked with a shiver. When was the last time someone had touched him like that? Better not to think about it.

The couch was narrow; it would take some acrobatics or clever thinking, but he felt up to challenge. He pulled away, regrettably, for a moment, in order to push himself up. He leaned over her, one arm on the back of the couch and one knee fitting in between her thighs. She moved to make as much room for him as possible.

Despite his efforts, there was a gap in the curtains. But bless it because through it, a sliver of moonlight snuck in, throwing its light over her beneath him. She really was an attractive woman. She was muscular and tight, still curved, though subtly. She wore her hair mostly shaved, save for a strip of long, wavy locks that had been dyed green. Her face was scarred – a gash near one eye, and three long stripes across her lip – but still pretty, with piercing eyes and full lips.

Lips that were parted slightly, just before she bit down on her bottom one.

And, what's that? His fingers were on that damn strip of skin again, exploring, even sliding around to reach under her arched back. Then up her sides – up and up, expanding the exposed parts of her until the fabric caught on the swell of her breasts. His mouth followed the track of the fabric, softly biting what was uncovered by his treacherous hands.

He reached up, unzipped her jacket, then started with the bottom-most button of the shirt underneath. He looked at her face, ensuring that he wasn’t crossing a line, but her eyes were glued to his fingers, and she pressed herself up to his hands with something like a whimper.

Permission granted, he continued unbuttoning, moving his way up until the last button was loose, and the fabric settled again, an inch of space between the two sides, giving a view of her sternum and the valley between her breasts. He licked his lips, noticed her mirrored expression, then pushed the fabric back on either side, exposing her chest and shoulders to him. There were scars; he shouldn’t be surprised, but they felt out of place.

He ran his palms up her stomach, over her breasts, feeling the peaks and valleys, the shiver that ran through her from his calloused hands. His mouth was watering, eyes flicking down where she ground herself against his thigh, her breathing staccato, rapid.

His fingers danced over the button of the leather pants, eyes meeting hers. She gave a short nod, lifted her hips to make it easier for him to yank them down. He was desperate; seemed she was, too. So neither of them thought to remove her boots. Didn’t matter; he tugged the leather down as far as it would go, bunched at her ankles. It was enough. He pressed her knees apart and down, opening her legs wide, leaned over her ankles and spread her folds with two fingers before drawing his tongue over her clit - once, twice, again, and again, watching the muscles under her belly twitch.

Dani had never been shy with her language, but the steady stream of curses tumbling from her mouth now would give a sailor pause. He assumed. Deacon didn’t know any sailors himself. But he knew how to make those words come out of her mouth. Tongue, lips, just the hint of teeth, fingers holding her open until he felt moisture on them, then sliding one, two right into her.

He pressed the tips of his fingers hard against her top wall, adding pressure with his tongue above, and she damn near shrieked.

“Shit, Dani, wanna wake up the neighborhood?” He spoke against her with a smirk.

“Shut the fuck up, Deacon. I’m so fucking close.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

It wasn’t a chore. It was what he’d been thinking about since he saw her wear this fucking outfit the first time. He didn’t want to think it - for so many reasons. But he did. Every single day, walking behind her, watching her hips sway.

She was close. Had been close. She choked on her next curse, went silent for a moment, arched against him as much as she could, with her ankles bound in her pants the way they were. Moisture dripped down his fingers, his wrist; he collected it with his tongue, moaning into her. 

Dani was panting beneath him. His erection was damn near painful, his pulse thundering in his ears, he could barely make out the words she was repeating for a moment.

“Fuck me,” she breathed again, “fuck me.”

He pushed himself up from the awkward angle over her ankles, feeling the uncomfortable twinge in his back. He was getting too old for this. Her hands were on him, fingers skimming under his shirt, then finding his buckle. 

There was a moment of hesitation then. For a lot of reasons he didn’t want to dwell on. He let her tug it free, let her unbutton his pants, unzip them. The sudden release of pressure was enough of a relief for a moment. 

“Yeah, alright, sweetheart.”

He scrambled up, away from her, circled his finger once he was standing and could tug his own pants down. And if that wasn’t the best part about being partners with her, how she just knew what he wanted without him saying a damn thing.

It was awkward, and if he weren’t harder than the tower at Bunker Hill, he may have laughed, even though she somehow still seemed graceful, flipping easily and sliding down until her knees were on the floor.

If there was a god, he hoped he’d be forgiven.

He dropped down behind her, straddling her ankles. One more time, just once more, he slid his fingers between her legs, felt how wet she was. He was definitely not going to be forgiven.

“Deacon,” she groaned, frustration giving her voice an edge.

No more teasing, then. He positioned himself, one hand on her hip to keep him grounded to terra firma in this moment, as he slid into slick, sweet heat. He bottomed out, hand spasming against her thigh, “ _Fuck_.”

He thought her ass looked good in those pants, but they had nothing on the actual thing. The black tips of her tattoo taunted him, and he couldn’t help his hand from pushing the fabric up, revealing a winged warrior that covered the expanse. He thought he might know what it was, but he didn’t care. She was practically dripping around him, a pulse keeping tempo with his hips grinding against her.

He kept his rhythm steady for a while, then swiveled slightly until she bucked against him, and he started again in earnest. Sweat dropped in front of his eyes; he didn’t bother wiping it away. He was balls deep in probably the most attractive woman he’d ever set eyes on, and she was whimpering his name in between pleas for more and faster and yes and fuck, right there, just like that.

He was going to lose it soon. But let it never be said he was no gentleman. He slicked two fingers and wrapped around her to tug at her clit. She practically sang then, and when her muscles clamped down around him, he lost whatever tenuous control he had had. He had just enough thought to pull out, a stream of his cum damn near gushing against her thigh.

He dropped over her for a moment, just a few seconds, to catch his breath. His heart was going to explode out of his throat, maybe, unless that was it, splashed on the back of her legs, maybe? He wasn’t sure. Couldn’t be bothered to care until she wriggled underneath him, “You’re heavy.”

He relaxed into her.

“Get off,” she whined.

He let himself go loose, let gravity embrace him. He was tipping over. He grunted and rolled, landing at an awkward angle against the couch.

He chuckled, as much to cover his rising panic as at his own joke. She did, too, head turning around, “What the hell am I supposed to wipe off with?”

He shrugged and tore off his shirt, tossing it to her, “There you go.”

She took it and wiped her legs. He helped, gathered some drops that she had missed, and then she had pulled on her pants again. 

“Alright, Deacon, you wore me out. I’m down for the count. You got first watch?”

Some of his panic lessened. She didn’t seem preoccupied with what had just happened. It was hot, hotter than hot, probably one of the most memorable fucks in his life, but that was it. It has to be. And she appeared to agree, as she clambered back up to the couch and flopped onto her back, eyes closed.

“Sure thing, partner.”

“Cool. Wake me when you’re ready for shuteye.”

And just like that, it may as well as have been a dream.


End file.
